History of the Kingdom of Askael
See also: Kingdom of Askael Turn 0 }|turn00| Askael. A broken land. Legends speak of a once mighty empire that stretched across the surface of Al'jann. From the great oceans of the south, to the towering mountains of the east and west, to the ice in the far north, great fields of snow and jagged ice as far as the eye could see. As the stories go, a great foe rose out of the north, and the empire proved powerless to stop them. Through infighting and the vast distances between the capital and the frontier, the armies arrived too late, and the northern reaches of the kingdom were overrun. In the wake of this tragedy, as refugees streamed south, the empire fell deeper and deeper into chaos... Until a singular event ended everything: the shattering. Legends tell of the very earth cracking, ripping, and flying apart. The empire was irrevocably divided, killing thousands in the process. Askael, a minor trade hub surrounded by farmlands, found itself floating, alone, on a small island lost in a sea of air. Generations have passed, and Askael has lived on well past the memories of its founding. All that remains are the faintest traces that still linger in ancient stories and folk tales. The city’s ancient, limestone walls are now crumbling, the pale rock ground under the heels of time’s passage. But the people endure. Farmers make up the majority of society. A few traders and craftsmen still reside in Askael itself. They do their best to maintain the city with the tools and technology they have today. The city’s defenses, once a noble brotherhood known as the Knights of the Flame, are greatly diminished. Only a few true knights and their griffon mounts heading the city guard. What few wizards there are do their best to heal wounds, encourage crops, and prevent foul weather. Askael. A small, isolated kingdom, struggling to do more than survive in the shadows of ancient glory. }} Turn 1 }|turn01| Alais trudged down the dusty road, covering his mouth and nose with the soft, billowing cloth of his brilliant white shirt. Well, it had been brilliant. Rain hadn’t been seen for some time, and while the intense storm had sustained the countryside, resulting in the dazzling green and shimmering golden that now surrounded him, the road had dried up under the sun. Before him, the walls of Askael stood, ancient and battered, largely ceremonial rather than an actual defense. Alais grinned, knowing his hike was nearly at an end. Breaking away from the crowd of farmers coming in for market day, he trudged past the guard post, waving at the soldiers idling nearby. He hopped up the steps into the nearby barracks. “Morning Ramir! Do you have my marching orders yet?” Alais called, and tossed an apple to a man in sturdy, well-oiled leathers. He looked up in time to catch it, and he grinned, taking a bite. Ramir nodded and swallowed. “Yep, just half an hour ago. Surprised you’re agreeing to do this. Figured you’d enjoy the cushy city life.” Alais laughed, a quick bark. “I’m a farmer, Ramir, always have been. A bit of soldiering doesn’t change that. And hey, ruler of as much land as I can see, people scurrying about to do my bidding, you know, sounds like the life!” Ramir shook his head. “You just keep telling yourself that. Well, we’ve got a small detachment that’s volunteered to go with you, set up as farmers and militia, you know the drill. I’ve heard word we’re also expanding some of our farms in the area around here, so if you fall short of the mark for the first few seasons we should be able to supply you with food to get you through it.” Alais nodded. It was a familiar plan. “Have you heard anything about the peddlers though? My main concern is for household items, salt, needles, the like.” “Oh yes, we’ve contracted a few to move up through that area. They’re not thrilled, but they’re being paid by the King to do it, so they’ll fall in line. And you’ll have news from them, if anything happens, rest assured." He paused. "Ah, yes, that reminds me, you’ve, uh, been promoted.” Ramir shuffled about his desk, pulled out a heavy scroll laden with seals and ribbons, and gingerly handed it over. Alais blanched, hands shaking as he picked it up. “You’re not serious. Me?” When Ramir nodded, Alais looked down at the scroll, slowly unrolling it and skimming the contents to confirm his fears. “A Knight of the Flame?” Ramir nodded, and solemnly quoted the writ. “Hereby granted the right to detain, judge, and bound to act in all things for the greater good.” Alais looked up, stunned. Ramir came around the front of the desk and clapped him on the shoulder. “Listen, it’s no bad thing. It’s an honor, truly, and you deserve it. It won’t prevent you from enjoying life out there, so just relax, go meet the soldiers going with you, and head back home. You’ve got a big day tomorrow.” Southwards from Askael Power in Askael x2 Culture in Askael Results +12 (72-60) +12 (58+14-60), +21 (67+14-60) -29 (17+14-60) The mistral was blowing fall in, a cool breeze from the north. Sir Alais stood on the firmament of a farm, the healed dirt hiding turnips and carrots and other hardy vegetables. His farm, he thought as he sipped apple cider from a mug, watching a farmer returning with a work steed from the next plot over. His farmer. “It looks very fine, Cedric. Very fine.” “Thank you, my lord,” the farmer said, undoing the animal’s yoke and leathers. “It is too fine. I will not take so much of it, I think.” The farmer nodded deeply. “Thank you so kindly, my lord.” It was no skin off his heels. The peddlers were late to come, and there weren’t enough caravans in the kingdom to sell all of this produce. The remainder would have to be disposed of before it rotted. Or, turned into cider. (Expansion successful! +2 all resources, +1 power) Back home, the petite drought broke, gentle rain dropping all through the province. Greenery exploded along the roads, hanging vines bloomed off the coast, and pumpkins and squash grew fat and orange. The farms grew. If the storms were kind, there would be time enough for many more harvests before winter came. (+8 Power in Askael) {Your home province has reached a new level of development. Development difficulty there increases to 65.} }} Turn 2 }|turn02| Declaring the newly settled land Chantar, or the Land of Singing Hills, Alais’ small settlement swiftly grew. Once homesteads and farms began to truly take shape, transforming the landscape from admittedly pleasant rolling hills to clusters of fields separated by low stone and wooden fences, Alais began to focus on creating a small town center for the people to congregate at. This began with plans for a small temple and, thanks to an enterprising settler named Peyre, a general store that would be able to order in bulk from the capital and sell goods year round. (Culture and Income in Chantar, actions 1 and 2). Buoyed by the success of the new town, another group was sent north in the following months, heavily laden with seeds, foods, and timber harvested from Chantar to aid in their efforts. (Spending 9 energy to get 3 wealth, spending 10 wealth to expand north, action 3). This new settlement, named Enmascar, the Bewitching Land, should be able to get the fields cleared before spring rolled around once more. During this time, Alais was also contacted by his superiors back in Askael, with orders to begin work on a chapterhouse for the Knights of the Flame on the southern coast of the Chantar province. This post would serve as a guard post, to protect the kingdom from incursions from the Mar de Anguilas, and eventually, to serve as the location for an airship base. While the hippogryph mounted Knights of the Flame did possess the ability to engage hostile air forces, their range was limited due to the easily exhausted mounts, and excessive energy and effort needed to keep themselves, and a fully armored knight, aloft. To increase their range, the first prototype of what would eventually make up the backbone of the Askaelic fleet was already under construction; a spiderwebbed frame of timber covered in sturdy cloth, replete with aerial stables large enough to support multiple knights, and a series of heat wells where wizards would channel their power into the ship, holding it aloft. Still, these were expensive and complex dreams that would require a steady supply of gold and food to support, not to mention resources to actually construct the fleets and facilities. First, the groundwork had to be laid. A small guild of lumber workers, fresh off the road from Askael, were quickly set to work establishing a guildhall and sawmill on the edge of one of the many forests in the region, and ordered to begin shipments as soon as possible. (Powerx1, Chantar. If this was enough to qualify for sea naming, +10 here pls). To sum up: Culturex1, Chantar Province Incomex1, Chantar Province Expandx1, Enmascar Province (North of Askael) Powerx1, Chantar Province with possible +10 Results +6, 0?, -53, +39 Names have ways about them. They have ways that they come about, and ways that they spread, and ways that they change. The lone scouts, in their exploration of Enmascar, traveled there in exploration, never stopping to camp or set down their roots for long, and they had made it back, delivering their accounts of its verdant, forested cliffs, its exotic undergrowth, and its wide, open valleys covered with mist. And so it was named for that, for it’s beguiling beauty. The first settlers sent back word of their successful encampment, requesting more supplies and telling of the quaint place they’d found between three hills, how it would be shaped to their need. It’s beauty. But Enmascar was a bewitched land. When the supply caravan arrived, they found the camp empty. Fields were half-plowed, already crawling with weeds. Doors hung open with their hinges still intact. A watch-tower on one of the hills was a skeleton, still in a state of construction. There were no signs of struggle, no blood, just the scrape of cartwheels leaving in a hurry. The supply caravan turned, returning along the road without making camp. None of them but the lead driver would talk about what they’d seen, and he wasn’t much help. The rumors spread, whispered in the firelight. Despite fears, there were already new settlers sharpening their plows. How does a whole village simply disappear? It was going well in Peyre. Unbelievably well, Alais thought. He knew he shouldn’t scorn the good times, but it gave him a bad feeling. He sat in on the guild meetings when he could, trotting down with the wagons on bright, moon-lit nights. Tonight, there was another petty spat. Tensions were high over something. Territorial dispute, it sounded like. “I’m telling you. This man’s been trying to put the wool over on me! He’s cutting down my border trees, and he’s digging up the stumps so as I don’t know what he’s doing.” “You liar!” one of them shouted. “I don’t need your trees. I cut my own trees, and I know what my border is.” “Liar? Who in the sea are you calling a liar, you wood-snatcher!” “Short-shrifter!” The men had to be restrained. Sir Alais shook his head. As the local reeve, he’d sometimes be called upon to settle such disputes, as an alternative to coming to blows. It hadn’t got that far, but it was getting there. Either way, someone was at fault. After all, trees don’t just get up and leave. Not without help. (+3 Culture, +5 Power in Chantar) }} Turn 3 }|turn03| Behind the dilapidated walls of Askael, a furor rose amongst the people. Many had friends or family that had traveled north to establish a new life, and numbered among the missing. Spears rattled against the lathes of the carpenters, hammers sang as they kissed the blades and silver armor of the Knights of the Flame. Banners cracked as they were unfurled in the breeze, and from both Askael and Chantar, the call was put out. The Knights of the Flame were preparing to mount an expedition into Enmascar, and restore contact with the lost. Squires would be needed, men-at-arms and footmen willing to face whatever might come. (Raise Armyx1, Askael). Alais drove through the brambles, ignoring the tugging sensation on his clothes as he pressed on. Ahead of him, the massive boar crashed through a stream, stumbling down the bank only to roll to its feet almost immediately with a spray of icy water. Looking to both sides to ensure he was supported by other knights in training, he used his shield to swat aside a smaller tree branch and rushed into a small grassy clearing, throwing himself to the side as he saw the boar turn in his direction and begin to charge. As he rolled, movement on the other side of the clearing resolved into two more guardsmen slipping through the underbrush, encircling the boar. As it turned, attempting to find a way out, or determine the weak point at which to charge, a shrill cry rent the air, and like a thunderbolt, a griffon dove from the sky. It was gone in a flash, leaving the boar scored across the back by both talons and a sword that flashed with silver and green light. Roaring in anguish, it lunged after the griffon and its rider, Ser Duran, but was far too slow to catch them, and was caught unaware as three spears were thrust into it from behind. Shuddering, still thrashing, the beast slowly collapsed, ringed by shattered spear staves and bristling with their shattered points. Ser Duran trotted up, raising his voice. “Good show, I must say. This should keep those lumbermen happy, and keep the wood headed our way! Now, let’s head back to Chantar! Drinks are on me!” (Protect the Peasantry, Powerx1 in Chantar). Alais patrolled the perimeter of what would become the chapterhouse, a series of deep furrows in the ground, lined with large, silver flecked granite blocks that were carved from the Argent Hills to the north. The foundations were in place, but for now, the guards were stuck living in a series of tents made more suitable for long term inhabitation by adding mud-calked wooden walls. The mistral had a tendency to slip through however they tried, however, and the men were grumbling, but that just made them work harder to erect the walls. The guards, along with a few experts from Askael, had established a small quarry near the center of the region, and new workers and craftsmen were expected to arrive any day now. For now, the guards were supplied with all the stone they could mine, and the experts got protection, as well as free labor in locating sites such as these. (Powerx1, Chantar). The silvery granite was not only used for local construction, however. The gorgeous shimmer it displayed, as well as the strength of the material, would do well for a project that King Sancre had entertained for many years; a new seat of the kingdom, to serve as redoubt and the center of the kingdom. New tapestries were commissioned, detailing many of the legends that endured from as far back as the Shattering, and plans were drawn up for a new castle in the center of Askael. Sancre looked over the sheaf of papers that littered his desk, before carefully affixing a purple ribbon to the base of the first page, and impressing his seal into silver wax to hold it in place; the Estoile, symbol of Askael. (Culturex1, Askael). Results -8, -53, +35, +11 Ser Duran stood atop the granite wall, his back to the new battlements the old city of Askael. A city built on its own ruins -- perhaps rebuilt more times than anyone knew. It was hard to imagine how many feet had walked these streets; how many kings had sat in its thrones; how many times its walls had been sieged. He watched the men sparring in the courtyard, under view of the grand tower. The greenery was still young and short and the tapestries would take another year of weaving at the least, but the glass was already fitted in the grand window: the estoile shown bright in the sun. “Breathtaking, isn’t it?” Ser Duran stood at attention at the presence of his king. King Sancre chuckled luxuriantly, angling his hand toward him in peace before returning it to his voluminous robes. “You must thank Alais for me. In past ages, this stone alone would be worthy of a title. I still have not had the pleasure of his countenance, and yet he has already done so much for his kingdom. I trust all goes well in Chantar.” “It does, my king. You should come south yourself. To see the quarries, you would think the greatest minds in the kingdom were on the task. We’ve just struck a new quarry with great monoliths. I am no mason, but I believe I see the statued form within them.” “Oh?” King Sancre said. “Perhaps there will be time for statues, one day. I fear we are not living in that age.” “What age are we living in, then?” The king inclined his head, watching the men sparring below. They were sloppy, Ser Duran noticed. Not just sloppy. Weak. The short time they had spent training today was enough to bring sweat out all over them. Their staves wove through the air, following the same repetitive paths through the air. Click. Clack. Click. Clack. “Do you see fighting men in these ranks?” King Sancre said. Ser Duran hesitated, nodding. “Not yet.” The king grinned. “We are in an age when walls are needed more than statues. And when men must learn to fight other men.” “What other men?” Ser Duran said. The king’s grin redoubled. “That is something that remains to be seen.” Culture in Askael Power in Chantar }} Turn 4 }|turn04| Alais strode through the ranks of training soldiers, most of them shirtless and glistening with sweat in the warm air of midmorning. The clack of training swords against shields, and low thud of blunt weighted spear tips against hafts or flesh filled the morning air, slightly muted by the dust kicked up by the combatants. “Come on you louts! One day those walls may be worth something, but I’m not so sure about you!” Alais shouted, the spear butt flicking out to take the leg out from under an unsteady recruit and send him spilling into the dirt. “We’ve still no word from the settlers sent north, and burn it, none of us are ready! Not me, not the people we protect, and not you.” Panting, the soldiers nearby came to a stop and shifted to face him, glad for any excuse to rest. “Is it true, ser? Are we to be sent north after them?” Mutters followed the question, including more than one whisper of “enchanted hills”. Alais stood from the crouch he adopted to lash out with the spear butt, before stooping to haul the recruit to his feet with a firm tug. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he turned in a slow circle to face the men. “I must admit, I don’t know. We will follow the King, of course; given his blessing, however, I would go north to rescue our people. If there is something out there, it could be dangerous to all of us. And if not, well, I would still rest easier knowing.” Raising his voice, he hefted a training shield from the hands of a recruit, and tightened his grip on the spear. “But, since we don’t know what could be out there, until we get our marching orders, you’re mine! So….” Facing the recruit, he nodded. “Again, at me this time. With some enthusiasm, damn your hide!” (Raise Armyx1) Inside the walls of the city, King Sancre’s new initiatives were gaining traction. Land was being cleared for a large complex of granaries capable of storing, hopefully, three months’ worth of food for the whole city. Flanked by Knights of the Flame bearing the estoile and flame sigils on their tabards, Sancre paced the broad avenues of Askael, discussing the progress with Ser Duran. “I would not send Alais from the capital again, Duran. He is quite suited to the work that currently occupies him, perhaps more than many of the more veteran members of your order. Perhaps another could assume control of Chantar, and oversee the construction of the fortress there. Are the resources provided there adequate for the plans?” Duran shrugged, keeping pace alongside Sancre even as his hand rested on his sword and his eyes scanned the crowds. Not that he expected any trouble, but you never could tell. “Could be, sir. I haven’t seen the latest sketches.” Pausing, he turned to face the king. “I have heard the talk though. We’re spread too thin. We can’t spare the men to march north, and still hope to guard more expeditions into the forests. The guards we have, the outposts we have, will have to suffice.” Sancre frowned, continuing his slow, stately glide along the sun dappled road. “Perhaps if the newest colonists took to sea? I know they may not slip too far out of port, but it seems like those skiffs were perfect for fishing, and eels make fine dinners. No guards needed, either.” “But the lumber?” Duran began, but Sancre cut him off gently. “If we don’t have men to work the fortress anyway, it won’t be missed for months. And, Duran? Keep an eye on Alais for me. If this expedition goes well…..that man has fire in his soul. I can use that.” (Powerx2: Granaries in Askael, Fishing Fleet in Chantar) Sancre and Duran made their way out through the gates, where they and the two retainers all mounted onto griffons and proceeded at a steady pace down the road. As they went, they passed a small line waiting to enter the city. “Are the taxes causing much grumbling?” Sancre asked, raising his voice slightly to be heard over the breeze and the jingling of tack and harnesses. “Nothing too bad, your majesty. As long as the price stays low, I think they’ll quickly grow accustomed to it. Especially since you announced it would be waved on festival days.” Duran seemed to relax as they escaped the confines of the city, and though he still watched, he was clearly less worried about bandits or animals than assassins or cutpurses inside the walls. “Will it be enough to pay the merchants, though?” “On its own, it is unlikely. Perhaps if I decided not to wave the fee for festivals, but I doubt it will be necessary. With the tithes the temples provide, and with the annual head tax, we will make do. Perhaps even go ahead with the purchase of the metals for your new chapter house in Chantar soon.” (Wealthx1, City Entrance Tax) After another few minutes of riding, Sancre reigned in his griffon and unbuckled himself from the saddle, patting the beast on the beak as he slipped off and strode around to the front. “I’ll leave you here, Duran.” Seeing the signs of protest flash across his face, Sancre raised a hand to quiet the man. “You know our laws, Duran. The Valley of Kings is for me alone, until my heir should come of age. If it makes you feel better, you may fly overhead.” Grimacing, Duran nodded, and a few sharp gestures sent the two guards circling above the tree tops of the grove. Duran paced his own mount around restlessly before settling in beneath the intertwined trees that marked the entrance. Sancre bent to remove his shoes before stepping through the tree-gate and into the valley. He strode, feet warm against the cool, springy grass. A brief walk brought him through the avenue of trees, to stand before a small gurgling stream of icy water and a pile of rocks overgrown with moss still wet with the morning’s dew. Kneeling before it, Sancre cast his eyes around, taking in the scattered graves, the resting places of his forefathers. “I have sacrificed much, father. I hope my voice reaches your ears, for my mind remains in turmoil. Is this truly the way? The Knights of the Flame will support me, knowing my efforts will bring them to new heights, but as for the rest?” He listened to the calming noises of the glade. “Unchecked expansion, a return to our fabled former glory..." he continued. "The land and its people will bleed.” Silence was all the greeted his voice, silence and the occasional trilling of a bird. “I know that there will be no chance to turn back now, so I suppose I only want reassurances. I have sold my soul for a dream, for our dream. I only hope I will not regret it in the end.” (Culturex1, Valley of Kings, paying 50 powah for an extra action.) Results +04, -52, -52, -11; +25 King Sancre waited, unsure. The dead are sometimes hard to hear, sometimes silent, but they’re always listening. He waited until his neck grew tired and the sun had shifted, pulling the little window of light away from him. When he was near to leaving, he looked upon the cairn again and saw it was bathed in light, and next to it — at the very base of the rocks — a tiny sapling grew. It peeked up from between two stones, its acorn obviously planted there by some clever but forgetful squirrel. Its three leaves shone healthy and green in the light. Sancre regarded it coldly. If a tree was permitted to grow on his father’s resting place, it would surely be disturbed. Roots would sink into his body, and its trunk would cast aside the stones. Sancre would not have it. He took the slender thing in his fingers, plucking it from the ground along with its roots. As he did, it seemed to crumble in his hands, and when he blinked, there was no evidence in his hand or on the ground that there had been a sapling at all. The King sits back, meditating on this. He bowed his head toward his father’s cairn, clasping his hands. “I understand,” he said. “Thank you, father.” (Gain +5 Culture in Askael) All the new soldiers marched through the streets toward the palace, their arms on display as seeds and flowers and crowns of olive rained down upon them. As they crossed through the gate of the new castle, forming ranks in the courtyard. The King stood upon an inner wall, beckoning to the citizens who were unsure of their presence here. When the courtyard was full, he raised his hand and delivered his address. It was short. Here were the champions of Askael. Here were the warriors sent to do battle with that ultimate enemy: the unknown. “And you, dear Ser Alais. Here is the man that accomplished their training. Here, people of Askael, is your newest General.” As the soldiers roared their applause, the people did, too. Alais was less enthused. He felt the weight of his armor. The King had confided this choice in private to him, as well as his understanding of the responsibility as well as the discomfort and danger this placed upon his shoulders. But Fate had already taken the strings away from him; there was no better choice. (Army Raised in Askael! -25 Wealth. Upkeep increased: 0 -> 10 Energy.) }} Turn 5 }|turn05| With fanfare and banners, with dust and wagons laden with supplies, with the hopes and fears of the nation, the army marched north, ready to colonize the enchanted hills, no matter the cost. (Send the army north to find the last expansion, and either expand again that way or expand past it if they somehow lived.) Back in Chantar and Askael, the time had finally come for the planting. The Ardent College, as it was loftily known, was called forth again, circles of witches in green robes, each linking with the head of their circle as they stood amongst the fields and prepared to weave their magic upon the land itself. Glowing with arcane power, they shifted the weather temporarily, bringing rain to nourish the seeds. They infused the land itself with life and energy, repeating the yearly ritual that would, hopefully, bring forth a prosperous harvest. (Power x2 in Chantar.) (Power x1 in Askael.) Results 58(?0?), 93(+24), 8(-51), 62(+13) General Alais trudged down the greenery-choked dirt-road, covering his mouth and nose with the cloth of his brilliant white arming shirt. Well, it had been brilliant. The pollen had been thickening in the air for some time, and while a light rain had saturated the countryside, resulting in the dazzling green and shimmering gold that now surrounded him, the road and all the men that trampled it had begun to sweat under the sun and the sparkling moon. “Why is it so hot? It’s the winter solstice, isn’t it?” “I don’t know. I don’t control the weather.” Alais overheard two officers talking. He wiped his face with another kerchief, resisting the urge to reign his steed in so he could listen. As a leader, he couldn’t feel right about conversation anymore. Every time he approached one of his men, they snapped into a salute, and suddenly everything was formality, and he was the center of attention. He strained his ears. “Maybe we’re out of the Mistral. My grandma used to tell me stories of leaving it. She says it’s like walking through a door into a hot room.” “But there’s a northern wind right now. I can feel it.” “Well maybe there’s a wildfire somewhere. You smell that smoke?” Alais sniffed. He did smell smoke. He nudged the flank of his horse, coming alongside his highest ranking lieutenant. “Do you smell that? On the wind.” His lieutenant sniffed and grimaced. “Is that the men or the horses?” he said. “We have been riding hard and long in this insatiable balm.” “That’s not it. You don’t smell smoke?” Ahead, shouts came from the lead, and behind, similar shouts. From both sides of the road a mist trickled down. It seemed to ooze through the trees, to come out of the bark, and rise from the ground itself. “We’re surrounded!” one of the smoke-smelling officers shouted. “Calm yourselves,” the high lieutenant said. “It’s just the moon. A ray must have cast across us.” “All the same,” Alais said, his voice booming. “Raise your guard, men.” It was a superfluous command. The whole company was tense, scanning the trees. Scents of burning pine filled Alais’s nostrils as the mist rose. It grew thicker, spooking men and horses and raising an unsoldierly bustle. But as the mist thickened enough to block the sight of the men ahead and behind and even beside him, so too the sounds faded into echoes, then to shadows, then to the mute thump of his own horse’s hoofbeats, soft in his ears. “C-captain!” Ahead, the two smoke-smelling men sublimated from the fog, their horses turned aside. Their faces were panicked, but seeing them sent shocks of relief so tangible that their horses stopped their champing. “Captain, what… what should we do?” Alais cast his eyes about, but they three remained alone. The shape of the road and presence of trees on each side could still be made out, and the moon sometimes cut through with a prismatic glare. He gripped his reins, knuckles white. “That is a difficult question. I only know what we will do,” he said. “On my flanks, and keep your arms at hand.” Without hesitation, they followed him as he plowed onward into the fog. Out of the smoke became a town. Hardly a town. There were skeletons of Skaelic buildings, their lumber frames solid but showing clearly through the gaps in their slatted facades. Here, the boards were ripped out or the windows were smashed in. Bare frames stood unmolested, the remainder of their construction materials piled on the rain-soaked floorboards. They were creatures half formed, wooden corpses picked to the bone. Captain Alais and the two smoke-smelling officers clopped down main street. It ended until a building. It was complete, a building like a temple or a hall. It was a gathering place stuck neatly at the town’s center. A figure framed the doorway. It seemed like a shadow, watching warily. Seizing a freshly lit torch from one of his aides, Alais raised it high into the smoky air. It threw light and shadows on the street and the buildings but not on the dark doorway, as much as he wished it would. He squinted to make out the figure, and he tried to ignore the glare of torchlight on the fog. Alais hissed to his aide, "Damn it all, how did we get separated? Go find the rest of the column and get them to circle up in a defensive perimeter. If you can manage that without getting lost, get those mages to clear this fog and come find us." The aide paled, but nodded, and wheeled her horse out away from the broken buildings, moving at a trot that threatened to break into a canter as both horse and rider nearly burst with nervous energy. As the aide trots away into the fog, the other aide watches her silhouette fade, and after a few rolls of hoofbeats, she is gone completely, leaving nothing but horseshoe prints in the ground. The aide twists the leather of his reins, scanning the empty doors and windows with trepidation. Before he's realized, Alais has dismounted, edging forward toward the stranger, leaving him alone. He tapped his horse's side, coaxing it into a gentle walk and stroking its mane to keep it calm. In truth, the animal was perfectly cool and collected. "Who in the Light are you?" Alais said. "One of the missing colonists?" Stepping forward, Alais lifted the torch once more, to clearly illuminate his face. "I am Sir Alais. What happened here?" "My stars, a knight," the figure said. "Missing? I'm not sure what you mean." The voice carried strangely. He could barely make it out. "I am Maire Milden, sir knight," the stranger said. "Come in out of this heat. We can talk over luncheon." He retreated into the darkness of the hall. "S-Sir Alais," the aide said. "Permit me a small breach of rank, but in the circumstances, I think it would be wise to wait for a-a reinforcement." "I agree, but how long can we wait before we have to do something?" He watched tendrils of fog move up the length of his torch, drawn by the flame's heat, then shot through the flame to mix with smoke. In the air above, it was impossible to see where the smoke began and the fog ended. "I have to say, this... fog, it surely must be supernatural. We must prepare ourselves for the worst, in case this fog lingers and no reinforcements arrive." Despite his confident words, Alais hesitated before motioning his aide to follow. He moved closer to the hall, searching the building's facade. At the open door, dirt had been swept out, leaving faint streaks on the floor and the partial imprints of boots remaining on the lip. On both sides of the door, flowers grew, lining the front of the building. It was a pattern of white rose bushes with yellow lilies between them, and in front of them, a perfect line of what looked like common wildflowers. All of them were young and freshly planted, the earth turned and flattened beneath them. Alais reach down to the rose, pressing his finger gingerly upon a thorn. It drew a bead of red blood. Surely this was a phantasm or enchantment, but it all appeared so solid. These flowers, at least, were no phantasm. The nature of this town and its maire remained to be seen. "There's a post around the side with hay and water," Milden said. "Tell you the truth, I've been expecting visitors for a while now." Alais gestured to the horses, and his aide led them around the side. His heart sank, but as he listened, they didn't seem to disappear, contenting themselves with their feed. He felt a pang in his stomach as well. Through the door, he watched Maire Milden. From this close, he could see the vague shape of the interior. Despite the tall windows, the smoke and the height of the sun only darkly lit the one room. At the far end, off-center to a stepped platform from which meetings were conducted, a hearth stood against the wall, and Milden hunched in front of it, stirring a pot over the fire and tasting the spoon. Rows of benches had been pulled aside to line the walls, leaving enough room for dancing, or for dueling drills. A round table had been pulled up near the hearth. There were four chairs, and four place settings. The aide came back around the corner, relieved to see Alais had not gone up in smoke. "The horses seem pleased," he said. "It seems we'll be joining you," Alais said, keeping his host in the corner of his eye as he lowered himself to his seat. "I must say maire, the town seems to have had some trouble. The capital hasn't heard from you in months, and the King was expecting regular reports. The messengers sent to check on you have also gone missing. The whole thing is highly irregular." The maire looked up from the pot, slurping something brown and steaming. He grinned. "I'm afraid I don't know much about that," Milden said. "We've had a great deal of visitors. Is it possible they just lost their way? The landscape can be quite perplexing." Alais's aide ambled cautiously about the table, looking at each place setting. "Nice of you to set four places," the aide said. "I'm not sure if she'll be joining us." He reached for one of the chairs. Milden glared at him, steam from the open pot running up his face. They both paused before he broke the tension with another grin. "Of course," Milden said. "But I think she'll be along shortly." The aide lifted his chair by inches, setting it down and sitting as silently as possible. "Sir Alais," Milden said. "You asked what happened to the settlement. To our town, you did?" He shook his head and laughed, stirring the pot. "Everyone is fine." Alais and his aide didn't look convinced. "Really!" Milden said. "Perfectly fine. Not a hair on their heads. You see, we found some natives not too far from here, and they invited us into the fold, as it were. Understandably, it was a little jarring, and it was all very serious for a while, but I think it all came to a happy end. Or, is coming to it, that is. I would be joining the rest of them, but how would that look? A town, totally abandoned?" "Not good," the aide said with a mirthless grin. Alais could barely contain his fury as he watched the maire titter on. Something in his face made his sword-arm twitch. Milden's grin spread wider. "Wait until you taste this pork. It's juicy, it's tender, and stewed with some mushrooms? Delicious. There's some incredible boar out here, sir knight. Oh, but I suppose you're more of a beef man." Alais jerked to his feet. The chair clattered behind him as he bolted upright, hand grasping the hilt of his sword. "Maire," he said. "By order of the King, you will take us to the other villagers, and to these natives. Immediately." Milden gave him a weird look. "Immediately?" he said. "Sir Knight, they're a day's ride out, at least. Haven't you rode enough today?" He shook his head and tutted, turning back into the steam again to stir his pot. "And if we leave now, My Lady will-" He froze, staring wide-eyed into stew. Alais stood poised on the balls of his feet, perched above his fallen chair. His swordpoint wavered. "What? What is it man? Speak!" Alais turned his eyes towards his host's stew, stepping sidelong toward the fire and peering. Milden twisted, flattening himself against the mantle. The lid clattered back on the pot. "Milden," Alais said, fingers white on the hilt. "What's in the pot?" "W-what do you mean?" Milden said. "It's just beef stew. Just beef stew." "Good Maire," Alais said, careful not to draw his blade. "I must see the stew." "It's still... stewing." Alais twitched. The haft jerked up, revealing a hairsbreadth of blade. "Okay!" Milden said. He stepped aside, lifting the lid off. It strained his arm to hold it out, distancing himself from Alais as much as possible. The General stepped forward, peering in. Through the steam, swimming in the brown liquid, he saw viscous trails, and on a half-submerged mound of glistening chunks, he saw something. Medium-sized. Round, and oblong, cut and tender on one end. Thumb-shaped. It was a carrot. Carrots, they revealed themselves in the steam. With them were fingerling potatoes, peeled and supple, and beautiful button mushrooms stewed with the cubes of layered fat: lardons. It smelled heavenly, to the point of his mouth watering. Of course, there was the beef, so tender it was pulling itself apart, and a bundle of herbs, and a small cloth hung behind it, high above the flames, where the peas surely kept warm. "B-boeuf jardiniere," Milden said. "It's just beef stew, Sir Knight." There was the clop of a hoof, and the three of them turned toward the door. Milden started excitedly, upending the bag of peas into the pot and stirring madly. "That'll be her," he said. "I told you I was expecting a guest. Good thing I always 'beef' up the recipe." He laughed at his own joke. In the smoke, the rider dismounted, and another, one in military garb, lead the horse around to where the other horses were resting. When the rider stepped through the door, she dropped her hood, revealing hair of dull, stringy flax. Her hands and throat were decorated with jewels of office, and despite the sudden heat and her cloak of heavy wolf fur, her face didn't show a drop of sweat. In fact, her face showed very little. It was absolutely smooth. Her mouth slid subtly into a smile for Alais across the hall. She inclined her head in the defference one is allowed to show an equal or lesser man. "You must be the one from the East," she said. "Tell me, how fares Askael?" Again, Alais's sword wavered. His grip lessened, but he dared not release it. "My lady," Alais said, bowing from the waist: enough to be polite, but not deep enough that he lost sight of the woman. "The nation fairs well, but we have heard nothing from you for months. Since you set out, really. What happened here? And, for that matter, how can you stand this heat in that outfit?" The question seemed to confuse her. Alais raised his other hand to forestall his mysterious hosts, and began again. "I was sent by the King himself, with the might of Askael behind me, to find out what happened here. Perhaps you could start with explaining this strange fog, and then tell me what happened from the beginning." "Nothing from me? In months?" Her lips twinged up, a puff of a laugh escaping as she furrowed her brow. She looked quite amused. Her teeth were immaculate: the same pale color as her face and in perfect regimented order. "Oh but Sir Knight-- We haven't had word from Askael in centuries! When shall I begin?" She turned a hand toward the door and to the fog-swamped corpse of a town beyond it. "The weather is odd at times in the forests of Hoia. Though I must admit, today, it did require some coaxing. I assure you, the fog is mostly harmless." Her assistant came through the door, taking her coat from behind to reveal a dress of thick vellum etched with cryptics of gold. "In fact, it barely affects most humans. It has a far greater effect on plants, but they don't seem to mind either," the pale woman said. She ushered her assistant forward. She was hiding shyly behind her, like a child, and when she stepped around, it was a woman with a bright flower tucked behind her ear. Alais's aide bolted from his chair, standing like a hunted deer. "Lucia?" he said. She was dressed as an officer of Askael. In fact, Alais remembered her to be the aide he'd sent back into the fog, to fetch the army. She barely responded to her name, an expression of realization crossing her face moments after, but she didn't respond, deferring to her lady beside her. "Alais, is it?" the lady said. "I am Bryony Alba, and I speak for the Hoia-Baciu. I've learned a little from Lucia, so we can skip the pleasantries." Alba nodded to her aide, causing her to blush, pleased as a pet. Lucia touched the flower nestled in her ear, tracing the steam down her neck to where it disappeared beneath her collar and her unsoldierly unbound hair. She followed Bryony Alba across the room, toward the table where the maire was already plating the stew. "Now," Lady Bryony said. "What is Askael's business in our land, Sir Alais?" "My business..." Alais said. "Well, it was to rescue the colonists, if they needed it, and ensure the safety of the kingdom. That being said, I truly am at a loss. You seem to have survived admirably, under the sway of this..." Alais smiled grimly to himself. "...enchantment. For Askael, it has been months, not centuries. Even if it were centuries for you, we continue to have a vested interest in this land and those who dwell on it." Alais nodded towards Lucia, his eyes augurs as he faced the pale lady once more. "Personally, I have a vested interest in the safety of those who follow me. And I'm afraid I must insist you let her go. We may treat, and I can return to Askael to pass on whatever information you wish for me to relay to the King, but you shall not harm those who follow the flame banner." "Enchantment? Me?" Lady Bryony said. "Good maire, have you been feeding this man nonsense?" Maire Milden shook his head, laughing nervously to himself as he unwrapped a round loaf of bread and cut into it. "No, nothing like that," he said. "At least, I don't think so." Alais's remaining aide leered at him. "You don't think so?" he said. "You've done nothing but lie to us and lead us on!" "I think that's a little unfair." The aide pointed a finger at him, letting his chair clatter from his hands. Milden jumped, nearly slicing his finger. Alais narrowed his eyes. "We've been mislead. I think that's fairly said." Alais paused for a moment before grimacing. "Don't you?" Lady Bryony sighed, adjusting the jewelry on her breast. "Milden?" she said, warningly. The maire drew himself upright. "Of course. Perhaps I have not been entirely forthcoming," he said. "I will explain. In the meantime, I've prepared a sumptuous meal. I know you're all hungry." The white lady took the invitation and pulled up her seat, as did Lucia, with some coaxing, looking about the table and the strangers with wide-eyed wonder. Milden, seeing that the two other guests did not have the meal on their minds, rubbed his hands in thought. "Well," he said. "It's exactly as I've said. Not far from here, about a day's ride, we found some... native folk. That is, I found them, or they found me. Lady Bryony found me." The lady took some beef in her fingers, lifting it to her perfect eyes. "This is not pork," she said. "I thought your cows were all slaughtered." "Oh, I did as well! But I happened upon the last of the herd. What luck!" This pleased her greatly. She pressed the meat into her mouth, savoring it before scooping down for a button mushroom, nearly swallowing it whole. She brushed the carrots and potatoes aside. Lucia followed her lead with not as much disdain for vegetables. Forks were mysteriously absent. The only cutlery present was an unused knife at each setting. "And... I admit," Milden continued, "it was a bit fuzzy for a day or so there. But after that..." He paused. "You see, we in the colony weren't doing terribly well, not with the cold of Winter. But then Lady Bryony came, and it was incredible! A sudden change. That was only about few months ago." He placed one hand on his heart, opening the other to the creature with brown sauce dribbling down her chin. "Lady Bryony is our savior," he said. "I think we'd all appreciate if you treated her as one." She wiped her chin. Her plate was cleanly divided between a mound of vegetables and a remaining handful of beef and mushrooms. "I understand. General. You have my word: not a petal will be laid upon a man who has not already, and anyone who wishes to leave the forest of Hoia, or to enter it until the border of the lower valley, is free as a bird to," she said. She gestured first to Milden, then to Lucia with the other hand. She was still devouring her stew. "But these people will not return to you. Simply put, they are not your people. To be Askaelian is no longer in the nature of their being. They belong to the Hoia-Baciu, in body and mind, as is their right, and as long as the Throne of Askael remains in Aguilas, that right will forever remain. That is the agreement my queen entered with your king those many winters ago in exchange for the sacred boon we call Peace. Or did you forget the sacrifices your forefathers made to inflict an empire upon the world?" Alais sheathes his sword. "Then I'm afraid we have a problem. If you will excuse me, I must return to my men, and head back to the capital. The King must be informed. Despite my feelings, the King will have the final say." Maire Milden tenses up terribly, looking to Bryony Alba for guidance. His trepidation is such that even Alais lingers a moment, waiting for her response. Lucia continues to eat, unabashed. The white lady nods. "Of course. I would expect nothing else from a noble knight." She stood, gathering herself to her full height. From within the folds of her robe, she produced a gold leaf. "Take my favor," she said. "It will grant your envoy passage." Alais reached out, taking it reluctantly. It was cold and solid, like gold, but it was fashioned with incredible craftsmanship, if indeed it was crafted at all. "I wish this was a welcoming gift. An old reunion," she said. "Your king will have more respect for the old ways, I hope. For your sake." Alais and his aide lead their horses back down the street when the fog began to roil. The walls of the buildings seemed to stir with it, twisting and leaning with unseen tides. The horses were inconsolable, stamping and champing in fear. "General!" Alais's aide shouted. He pointed up, to the sun and the moon. They were shining through the fog now and quite clear in the sky. From the moon's center, a light flared and flashed. The flare drifted south, moving faster with every moment. The air hummed with liquid vibrations, the fog growing thicker and whiter with the brightness of the sky until the meteor seemed to hook over the horizon. A sudden wind followed it, driving Alais's uniform about him as the dust of the road chased the fog into the treeline. He looked back at his aide, too stunned to move. Down at the end of the street, where the gathering hall had been, nothing stood but a half-built wooden frame. Soldiers were combing through it, poring over where the two of them had stood merely minutes ago. One of them looked up, spying them down the street. Other soldiers, creeping about the buildings, took notice. "I found them!" a soldier called. "General Alais!" Alais gripped the golden leaf in his hand, slipping it into his pocket. When he gave the command to return to Askael, there wasn't a whisper of a protest, except for his aide, who only muttered a name. turn, if you don't decide to attack, the Hoia-Baciu can guarantee your Expansion. But they will want something in return. Power in Chantar Power in Askael }} Turn 6 }|turn06| The mistral whispered of the deepening cold, driving into the sea's gyre icy breaths that promised the scourge of Winter’s heart. Alais stood tall in his stirrups, drawing a cloak of gray wool tighter around his frame as he looked out over the gently rolling hills that surrounded him. Though snow was yet to fall here, and though it was often light enough that an army would pass anyways unhindered, the mere threat of it would put an early end to the campaigning season. Time was of the essence. It had taken time for the army to return from Enmascar. It had taken time to prepare for the invasion, and for the King to send an official declaration to those who would hold Askael’s people hostage. The land could be ceded, but not the people, and not time. Alais’ clenched his fist around the edge of the cloak, twisting it into his chest. Behind him, the silvered line represented the full power of the Knights of the Flame. Nearly every knight ready for active duty was mounted, accompanied by squires, men at arms, and sergeants. Small ribbons on the tips of every lance caught the breeze: reds and golds, oranges and whites, and every hue between. Each soldier's shield was painted white and emblazoned with the Flame of Askael on the crest, and every one wore a tabard belted at the waist that hid their chain hauberks with the same brilliant flame on a field of white. Alais sighed. The white cloaks would have to be enough. It would have to last until the army reached Enmascar. Then... then the forest would burn. The army was accompanied by several mages who had volunteered from across Askael and Chantar. Their talents lay more in manipulating the subtle patterns of weather, but that might be necessary if the fog returned. And the mages thought that, with luck, they could provide the sky's lightning if the situation grew truly desperate. (Double Upkeep of Knights of the Flame Field Army to train them and send them into battle) (Military Meta-Tech x1, Weather Wizards) Back in the city, King Sancre had put out the call for more soldiers, combining elite footmen from the Knights of the Flame who acted as his personal guard with common citizens who had some experience with arms. He declared that this new force would henceforth serve as a city guard for Askael itself, freeing up the Knights of the Flame. It would come to be known as the Estoile Guard. (Spend 33 Energy to receive 11 Wealth. Spend resultant 25 Wealth to recruit another army) These efforts drained the resources of the young kingdom, and hit the treasury hardest of all. King Sancre quickly sent out early recruits from the Estoile Guard to man the roads that crossed the kingdom, to serve both as guardians over the highways and as toll collectors. They maintained patrols up and down the Kingsroad, sending the money earned back to the capital. (Develop Income, Askael and Chantar, 1 action each, hook me up with another minus fifty energy in exchange for a 5th action pls). Results -23, +33, +17, -22, -46 The mages of Askael were arrayed in an open field. One would shout, and as a body, they would bring the wind to bear, calling it this way or that or into a great downwell, pulling it from the sky and pushing it toward the horizons. Clouds shifted in the sky, stretching and growing thinner in their course when the mages acted as one, and all across the field insects took wing and were blown clear over the hills. Far from them, far upstream of the Mistral wind, their leader sits in contemplation. The craggy summit he had spied on the horizon from their training ground, was awash with wind. He had recused himself to be here, alone while the others worked the field. After all, his was not a military mind, nor a mind of secret books. Those were things he was capable of, certainly, as any man is capable of leading a horse or felling a tree. But no: this was his place. He felt the wind. It seemed strange to him, how it sometimes guttered like a candle even in its calmest course. There was a foreign element within it, or perhaps its source was wider and deeper than he knew. His squire coughs. It is sundown. He sighs. They march tomorrow. Military ---- King Sancre sits atop his throne of green crystal. It’s the haunted, dim color of glass buoyed up by a storm. Gone from the room are the crawling vines and great flowers that flourished in the welcoming windows. All that is left is crystal and granite, the waiting guards, and his small court. Through the drafty door, a farmer comes hat in hand with his little daughter. Her eyes are hollowed by some ailment. And in her hair, perched near he ear, a flower sits. A yellow-red lily, thickly freckled like her face. The farmer, white-faced, rushes his daughter out. She is in tears, her hair disheveled, her lily gone. ---- Three soldiers hang over their station of the battlements, lounging about in an afternoon daze. Soldiers is perhaps too strong a word: they were garrisons of the lowest kind, untrained and unseasoned. One takes an apple from his pouch, tugging at his ill-fitting mail shirt. He points back over the courtyard. “The king’s behaving a bit weird, in’t he?” he says. “Why d’ya say that?” The second is whittling. His knife’s ragged edge takes to the stick, one chunk at a time, until the thing lies in splinters on the ground. He reaches for another, but the spot where they leaned up against the wall is empty, and they’re all heaped up between his feet. He kicks at it, scattering the chunks across the wall. “King’s got a right to be weird, I say,” he says. “On account of him sitting on that freaky chunk of rock.” “It’s crystal,” the third man says. “It’s old.” He’s hunched, scanning the horizon intently. His head turns very. Very. Slowly. The other two are mesmerized by him, watching intently. Until he stops at the extent of his neck, and the charm is broken. “Cor,” the second man says. “I know that.” The first man shakes his head, polishing his apple. “He’s just treating the, er… the gin-or-ale populace a bit differently.” He points back across the courtyard, where a father is consoling his daughter while trying simultaneously to drag her away under the eye of the step guards dressed in their firey tabard. “I’ve never seen the king make a little girly cry, for one.” “What is going on here?” The three of them stand at attention as a Knight of the Flame approaches, glaring each of them down as they stand at attention. “Goofing off, eh? Do I need to report you to the Commander?” “No, sire.” “No, sire.” “No…” The knight turns his glare to the third man. His eyes narrow. In a pinhole in his shirt over a ring of mail, a tiny bunch of pink flowers bloomed. “Apple blossoms?” he says, his teeth bared. He crushes them in his gauntlet, dropping it to the granite and grinding it into a crack. “If I catch any of you so much as slouching again, you’re on highway patrol, where you won’t have time to sit around all day and eat apples.” He left them at attention, and they stayed that way until he entered the next guardhouse, descending its steps. “Jackass,” the second man whispered. The first man took a bite of his apple. Estoile Guard is formed! It starts at +6 }} Category:History of Al'jann